A dossier to the Divine
by Lithuasil
Summary: A number of texts and letters, collected by the seekers of truth, to uncover what really happened during the Kirkwall uprising.  While this is largely me murdering established canon, some mild spoilers of the first two DA2 acts are included
1. Memoirs of a nobleman I

So you ask to hear of the day a young Ferelden almost became the champion of Kirkwall, eh? Well then lad, let me tell you, for unlike so many that tell the stories these days, I've been there. You've heard them, don't you? Of course you have. Stories of bravery, of a duel that decided the cities fate, but that's not true. Whatever bravery was committed in the Viscounts halls that day, I remember only the crushing injustice. Perhaps you'll understand what happened, once you've heard it, once you know what really happened.

I mean, of course there's some truth to those stories. Yes, on that fateful, that accursed day, the Qunari left their Compound, rose up to take the city by fire and sword, to make us all slaves of their heathen religion. The horn-heads had me and the other nobles all crowded together in the hall of the keep. That's where the Arishok threw the Viscounts severed head at our feet, spouting insults at the cities collected nobility, from a throne that was not his to claim. Truly, hope was a scarce thing these days. And none of us would've expected it to come from such an odd direction.

It was in the very darkest of moments, when most of us were certain we'd die at qunari hands, that she appeared. Back in the day, I barely knew her. The young heir of the Amell family. There'd been some uproar when she appeared out of nowhere a few years ago, but noble families come and go in the free marches. What little I knew, painted the young Amell as a scholar, a kind and gentle woman, not that unpopular with Kirkwalls other noble families.

By no means high in standing, compared to many in this room, when she walked into the keep that day, we all stepped aside. Dressed in the battle-torn remains of a once expensive dress, her red hair floating around her head, she was still barely the height of my shoulders. And yet, none of us, not even the Qunari honor guards dared standing in her way. She walked straight up to the Arishok, with not a shimmer of fear in her eyes. A ridiculous sight by all means, seeing a girl that barely counted more then five foot, with a stature better suited to a Dalish, face a monstrosity like the Arishok, eight feet of pure muscle, clad in blood-red armor, all with the whole cities nobility, good knights even, standing by, watching, paralyzed by terror.

Whatever we felt, to make way for the girl so easily, the Arishok as brutish a creature as he was, must've sensed it as well. He spoke up, and she answered. A scholar indeed, for few humans are fluently proficient in the tongue of the Qun. For a few heartbeats, it could've been mistaken for a calm conversation, even with all the chaos around us. Then one of the qunari in the room started screaming. The one to interrupt was an even worse atrocity to the eye then the Arishok himself, clad in chains, rather then armor, his face, thank the maker, hidden behind a golden mask. From where I stood, I could make out but a single clear word.

_Saarebaas._

What happened next, happened too fast for any of us, including the Qunari, to react. The Qun warriors next to the stairs tried to interfere, their crude blades at the ready, yet it took but a single movement of the young Amells hand, to send both of them to the ground, their spines snapped like twigs. Their bodies hadn't even touched the paved floor, when a bolt of lightning, brighter then the sun the make gave us, ended the chained Qunaris life. The Arishok himself at least managed to unsheathe his giant Sword, before the young noblewoman turned her fearsome powers against him. The first bolt of blue fire seared the flesh of his sword arm, and sent the blade flying. The second spell hit the Arishok square in the chest, and lifted the giant of his feet, sent his lifeless body crashing into the Viscounts throne, the usurper as dead as the righteous occupant of the chair.

For a moment, silence fell onto the hall, as Lady Amell turned around to face the remaining Qunari, her eyes blistering with magic, and blue flames in her palm. Apostate or not, that moment every single one of the gathered nobles would have testified that the maker himself put her in this room. A true champion of Kirkwall. A prophet of the makers grace.

Until the halls doors where opened anew. Until we realized, that the glare in her eyes was no longer the fury of the righteous, but sheer panic and graceless terror. To the metal sound of armor in motion, the templars had arrived. Over a dozen of them, in shining armor, their blades unsheathed, led by Lady Meredith, their infamous knight-commander. None of them even took note of the few Qunari left in the room. Slowly, silent except for the noise of their metal garments, they passed the ranks of the nobles, and started moving up to the stairs.

All the majesty, all the power that lady Amell had shown just heartbeats ago had vanished. She was no longer the all powerful mage, no longer a champion. Just an apostate girl cornered by templars with nowhere to run, frightened to death. And yet, the flames in her hands were still burning, proof of her destructive powers, a silent reminder that this could only end one way.

And yet again, the girl left us all surprised and speechless. I myself was certain, she'd try to force her way out, but she simply shook her head, and lowered her arms. The flames vanished. It was only much later, that I found that lady Amell had a younger sister in the circle, that violence here, would have put her next of kin in harms way. Back in that moment, I was left with nothing but bafflement. Bafflement, and an overwhelming sense, that what was in motion here, wasn't right. I saw her close her eyes, saw her accept the cruelty of fate, saw her fall onto her knees, with silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

It was as hard to accept that day, as it is for me to talk to you about it now. Whenever I think back to that day, I feel like I should have interfered. Could it truly be the will of the maker, that being dragged off to the gallows like a dangerous criminal was the only reward, the bravest of Kirkwalls defenders should receive?

Perhaps things would have happened otherwise, if I, or any of the other noblemen and women would have dared to speak up that day. But we didn't. We stood silently, watching as the templars dragged Kirkwalls champion away. Perhaps our cowardice is what made everything that's happened in the past four years possible. Inevitable even. You my friend, be the judge.

_-Taken from the memoirs of Friedrich of Reinhardt, 9:56 Dragon_


	2. Redemption of a templar I

Pathetic. Simply pathetic. Here I am, emptying my soul onto paper, the third time now, like some noble girl complaining about love sickness. But if, by some cruel joke of fate, these lines eventually find their way into the hands of a willing reader, do not judge me too harshly. For what I'm forced to witness is to much for a single soul to bear, yet speaking up insight these walls might well cost me more then just position and status.

I know full well what magic can do, what suffering this most terrible among the makers curses brings with it. My father was an apostate, fled from the circle before I was born. And while I myself was lucky enough to escape the makers wrath, his accursed blood has been inherited to both my sisters. It would be unfair, to blame my father for me taking up the shield of a templar, even though even my namesake was one. My father was a good man. A good man, taken from us far too early. But still, I cannot deny, that the curse of magic has certainly left it's mark on my life, perhaps a mark greater then even the blight that drove us from our home in Lothering.

I'll admit, in more then one night I've lain sleepless, cursing the fact that I too payed the price for something I myself had nothing to do with. The life of an apostate isn't easy, and neither is escaping the templars. I'll even admit, I myself might have cast more complains about our fate, then either of my sisters ever have. First of all, I've seen just how fearsome a curse magic is, in the hand of those able and willing to use it. I saw the powers that my sisters unleashed on the darkspawn, when we ran from the blight. Maker, even when that power saved my life, it is more, way more power then any mortal should wield. My father was a good man, a mage that showed remarkable restraint for all his life, where any lesser man would have long used such powers for personal gain. Magic is to server man, never to rule over him. Such is what Andraste the prophet set in stone as the first law of magic. Few mages understand that, but my father did, and for what it's worth, he passed that legacy on to his daughters. In the past few years, since I finally decided to join the templars, since I finally took my fate into my own hands, I've seen what magic does, what it really does. What it does, when wielded by those that do not posses the honor of my father, or kind hearts of my sisters. As a matter of fact, I've never seen a mage outside the circles bounds, that bowed to the makers will, that was not part of my family. And who knows, if I am a fair judge of their behavior, if that's not what everyone would think about a mage they shared their crib with. Despite what my father might have said, the circle is a good thing. It's a necessity. Even Bethany saw that, when she surrendered herself to the circle three year ago. But, maker forgive me, I am starting to doubt.

Things haven't exactly been kindly between me and my elder sister. Not since our father died. Now I know what she did, how she tried to replace him with all her might. Something like that isn't easy to accept for a younger brother. It is only now, that I know what burden she was carrying, all this time. Now that this burden, trying to defend your family, and to protect it in times as cruel as these, has fallen to me. When I first heard she was eventually discovered, that both my sisters were now part of the circle, I did not even seek her out. I didn't, until yesterday. A little over a month, after the Qunari uprising, when Kirkwall just so settled down again, our mother fell prey to a bloodmage, a despicable creature, dwelling in the sewers, kidnapping women as mere resources for his crooked rituals. Eventually, he was discovered, eventually the templars brought him down, even if it came at the cost of good lives. Regardless, they came to late to make a difference for our mothers fate.

Attending the funeral, between uncle Gamlens hypocrisy and Bethanys weeping was bad enough. But my elder sister wasn't even there. Of course she wasn't. I could, no I should have known that she did not stay absent voluntarily, that the rules of the circle strictly prohibit an apostate brought in so recently to leave the gallows walls. But part of me, perhaps the part that could not accept loosing another parent so soon, wanted to lay the blame at my sisters feet. For getting caught even, for not being there when mother needed protection. Like I layed blame at my sisters feet so often, over the past few years, whenever I myself failed to escape from the clutches of misfortune.

Even though it just happened yesterday, right now I am unable to tell, what I expected to see, when I pushed open the door to my sisters cell. The same sister mind you, that even after I joined the templars, managed to grab all the glory for herself. The same person, that singlehandedly slew the Arishok, while I was just another templar, fighting Qunari in the streets. The same person, that pushed me out of harms way, to take on an ogre all by herself. Whatever I expected to see, it will have been far from the truth, in all it's heart wrangling cruelty. I entered the wing where they keep the dangerous, and the recently caught apostates for the first time that day. To find my sister in a cell, of six square foot at most, nothing in it but a small chest and bed, bare walls and a single window. Or rather, discovering a person only barely reminiscent of my sister. The hair a right mess, the eyes almost as red, the cheeks hollow and the skin pale as virgin snow. I dare not fathom, what kind of experience, what kind of abuse brought her, no broke her down to such a state.

Maker, I've cursed her countless times for making me feel helpless, for being able where I was not. But never in my life, not in the face of the maleficar, not in the face of darkspawn have I felt as helpless as in that very moment, holding my sister in my arms. The sister that had not shed a single tear since father died, sobbing without a single trace of dignity left.

Maker, I know how often I prayed for the opportunity, to snatch the duty of leading, of protecting the family back from her. But not like this. It was never supposed to be like this.

Maker preserve us all, I am starting to doubt.

_-Taken from "Redemption of a Templar" by Ser Carver Hawke, first published 9:41 Dragon, declared heretic by the chantry 9:42 Dragon_


	3. A letter to the grand cleric I

To the attention of her Grace, the grand Cleric;

I have finally been permitted the inspection, that your Grace requested a few month back, on the treatment of Lady Amell, and the overall circumstances of the state the Circle is in. As you are well aware, the number of formal complaints from both the circle mages, and from civilians, has greatly risen over the past few years. Especially regarding the case of young lady Amell, and the most unusual events that led to her capture, parts of the nobility have been in outright uproar. With the city pretty much under martial law, and without a Viscount, it was most unfortunate how things went down. In fact, it has come to our attention that some of the more daring among the nobles seek to award Lady Amell with the title of "Champion of Kirkwall". With the rising support for such claims in mind, the necessity to treat her like any other equally dangerous apostate, has not quite served to calm the waves.

As such, I am more then happy to report that now that the year of quarantine has passed, she will soon be presentable to the public, and that any claims of abuses or outright torture within the circles halls, are entirely unreasonable, and can be dismissed as such.

When I was finally permitted to pay her a visit, I found Lady Amell in one of the regular two-bed dormitories that make for the majority of the accommodations in the circle. In fact, in an usual display of kindness, the the Knight Commander has granted permission for Lady Amell to share said dormitory with her sister.

(On that note your Grace, let me repeat that the entirety of this incident could have been avoided, if the templars had not faltered in their vigilance in the first place. When Lady Bethany Hawke was discovered in Kirkwall four years ago, the daughter of an Apostate escaped from this very circle no less, a thorough investigation of her remaining relatives would have been in order. I have time and time again proposed to have those templars in charge of her arrest are to be held responsible for the mess that their failure has caused.)

Regardless, I am most pleased to report, that I found Lady Amell in a weakened, but thoroughly healthy state. While I did not wish to embarrass her overly in front of the two templar guards present at the time, a brief inspection did not turn up any signs of physical violence whatsoever. At the very worst, she was tired out, if fully conscious, when I spoke to her. I have been assured, that a certain deprivation of sleep, as harsh as it might appear, is necessary during the initial quarantine, to prevent possible maleficar from conversing with creatures from beyond the veil in their dreams.

If pressed for a prognosis, I would hardly assume that she poses any further risk for the security of both the circle and the public. As lacking as as their ability might be at times, throughout the inspection I have found the templars to be not only vigilant, but fully capable of upholding uncompromised security within the circles walls. Additionally, Lady Amell herself, who appeared calm and entirely reasonable during the course of the interview, explicitly expressed any lack of incentive to leave the circle, now that both her siblings reside here in one way or another.

If I was to propose a course of action, I would advice your Grace to give Lady Amell a week or two of time to recover, and then formally request her to be made part of the mages delegation that take part in the official counsels. Presenting her to the public as soon as she has fully recovered from quarantine is likely to calm some of the unrest, currently caused by the nobility.

I remain your humble servant

Mother Claire

_-A letter to Grand Cleric Elthina, written by a revered mother 9:36 Dragon, retrieved after the retaking of Kirkwall 9:42 Dragon_


	4. Memoirs of a nobleman II

_Authors note: Come on people, don't be coy, I'm happy to hear any well formulated feedback. Criticism is the only way to learn, after all (and it's a good way to keep me motivated to write these things, now that I'm done with the game ;)_

My friend, I wish not to bore you, with the idle details of petty politics, as much as those have defined most of my life. This is not what these memoirs are about. I may have devoted years of my life to the useless quarrels among the Kirkwall nobility. Perhaps the better part of it, in more then one sense. The day I wish to speak of, is the second time I met the champion.

Kirkwall did not recover well, from the Qunari assault. True, it would be easy to dismiss the damage done by the battle as a lucky result, all things considered. Almost half a Legion of Qunari, wreaking havoc within the cities heart, without provocation, without warning. And yet – the city suffered nothing more then the death of a few dozen, mostly guardsmen, and a few fires in the slums of Lowtown and around the compound.

The death of Viscount Dumar on the other hand, left a dangerous vacuum. A vacuum, that the knight commander was all too eager to fill. Sure, she had already appointed the last Viscount, but at least there had been a Viscount. Dumar had been able to stand up against the templars rule. He even brought up the backbone to do so, from time to time. The nobility had accepted that. But Maker, we were not willing to let Meredith take the Viscounts chair for herself. For over a year, the city had been governed by a council of noblemen, under straight supervision of the knight commander and the grand cleric. In practice, that meant nothing more, then that we met up every few weeks, and wasted a few hours in debate, while Meredith governed the city. Not that any of us, who participated in this farce, had any doubts about our influence. By the blight, they even brought a selection of hand picked circle mages to these meetings. As advisers they said. Hard to tell, whether to mock us, or the mages themselves. Regardless, the chantries laws, you know, for mages not to hold any political power, were followed. None of them ever contributed anything worth mentioning to the actual politics. But then, neither did any of us nobles.

I only mention this, because such a meeting was the first occasion the Knight commander used, to present Kirkwall it's champion. I dare not say, whether it was cruelty, a clever political ploy, or indeed the standard procedure, as they claimed, to delay this event for over a year. Regardless, it hardly failed to impress. No hero can ever hope to be as large, as the stories told in his absence. And the young Lady Amell was no different. I know what you're about to say, of course she was stripped of her title when she joined the circle. But even after everything that's happened – I knew her as a woman of noble heart, and I refuse to address her by anything less then her proper title.

Ironically, the day I speak of, she was perhaps in the worst state I ever had the misfortune of witnessing. I watched from one of the windows above the stairs, leading up to the Viscounts keep. Quite a few people had gathered to the sides of said stairs, awaiting the circle delegation, no awaiting the woman that had long become the center of tales, full of heroism, full off glory. What they saw, turned out to not be quite what they expected.

In fact, from a less established point of view then my own, she was hard to make out, in the first place. She walked amidst the circle delegation, which itself was flanked to both sides, by templars, tall and vigilant. Not the tallest of women, and dressed in the same plain circle robes as those around her, it was merely her long, ginger hair, that gave her away. What I am about to tell you might just have been illusion, tricks that my old mind is playing me, but in hindsight, it almost feels like I remember her face. Her features frozen, the eyes locked on the gate of the keep, desperately trying to ignore the crowd amassed around her. Because of her.

She managed well, despite her state, far paler then I remembered her, the staff no longer an accessory, but a necessity keeping her from fully collapsing. The delegation had almost reached the final flight of stairs, when movement erupted from inside the crowd. An elven female, with short raven hair, dressed in finer clothes then most elves, broke through the line of guards, that shielded the stairs. Yelling at the delegation at the top of her lunges. For a moment, it almost looked like she was about to hurl herself at the templars, before another elf, tanned and with hair like fresh snow, grabbed her by the shoulders, and yanked her back in the crowd. The whole scene happened too far away, for me to make out any clear words in the yelling, but the tone, the desperation in the elf's voice left little room for interpretation. If there was any, Lady Amells reaction extinguished it. She bent her head sideways, to locate the source of the sudden uproar, like everyone in the delegation did. She couldn't have caught more then a glimpse of the elf, but that was more then enough. Even from my position, I could see her eyes widen. And then... nothing. She simply collapsed on the spot, as if all strength had suddenly faded from her body.

I would very much like to say that I observed how the rest of the scene played out. But truthfully, I averted my eyes, and left my watch post at the window. Do not mistake it for sentimentality, they called us take our places in the conference room. At least, that's what I'd like to believe today. They brought the mages in, a few minutes later. Lady Amell supported by another mage, with light brown hair, and blue markings in her face. The meeting was as meaningless as all those meetings were, but I can't say I even recall what was discussed that day. But even on my deathbed, I will never forget the look on Lady Amells face, her features frozen to stone, her eyes empty, staring past us all, her pale cheeks glistening like morning dew.

_-Taken from the memoirs of Friedrich of Reinhardt, 9:46 Dragon_


	5. Redemption of a templar II

Over a year. It's been over a blighted year now. The longest year in my life, that's for sure. And maker preserve me, I still scribble this in my off hours. I wonder, if I were to look through my sisters desk in the estate, would it be the same? Would I find seven years worth of scribbled parchment? At least she's out of the quarantine wing now. I guess I should be grateful for that. A year in a cell, a year without sleeping straight for a night, a year with no social contact, other then being fed through bars, and a knight waking her up three times per night. Well, that, and my weekly visits. Another thing I should probably be grateful for, a courtesy few mages receive. I can't say those visits felt like a favor to me, but maker, I know they were necessary. I could see it in sisters eyes. Nothing I've done in my life, she's been more grateful for, then for those brief hours, mostly spent in idle talk, or even silence, leaned on my shoulder.

She flat out refused to tell me, what happened in between our visits, as did the knight captain. Perhaps for the best. Duty in the quarantine wing is reserved for those templars, that have proven to rest firmly in their faith. Heh. It's ironic, come to think of it. The way, my doubts have become obvious, the way many of the other templars have come to shun me, perhaps a mere year ago, I'd have blamed my sisters for that, as well. But those days are long gone.

But as much as I should be happy, that they moved sister out of that hole, that she's with Bethany now, and no longer under close supervision, but somehow, she still manages to surprise me. I've known her all my life you see, and I'd like to think I know her better then most, especially now, that I've practically taken her place. I've also seen the kind of company she's been keeping, since we arrived in Kirkwall, and I doubt that it's gotten any better, since I followed Bethany to the circle. That crazy elven bloodmage. That whiny bastard Anders, and the other loonies from the self proclaimed mage-underground. I know, before Bethany was caught, she even openly acted against the templars. I spoke up against her, back then, but much has happened, so much has happened since those happy days. For the last few month, the anticipations have been outright haunting me. When she'd get out of the quarantine, she'd begin to rebel against the templars. She'd try to undermine the circles rules, like she defied any rules I've ever seen imposed on her. I had expected, no hoped, to see the strength that I so envied, return. Maker, I half expected to be forced to choose, whether to stay or to help my sisters flee the circle, condemning us to a live on the run once more. Maker, I feared that choice, even after all the things that have happened. But it seems like Sis will never do, what I expect of her. And truthfully, I'm not sure if I am supposed to feel grateful, or if I am to be disappointed.

Since the got out of quarantine, she's done absolutely nothing of these things. I've seen her holding hands with Bethany, I've seen her in the courtyard, with the other mages in the courtyards, and the library. Maker, I've seen her bow her knee during the mess in the chantry. It would be far from the truth to say she appears happy, but for the lack of a better word... peaceful. No, tame. Like someone who has accepted, who is about to settle down.

Until that day. When they took her to the city, along with the other mages. No one in the circle, no one in the order, has any doubt about the questionable honor that is being part of these delegations. Some of the other knights even joke about it. About the knight commander, "showing off her leashed beasts". An abasement, beyond what I would ever be willing to take. And yet somehow I doubt, it was embarrassment, that put her in the sorry state, she was in, when they brought her back to the circle. That was yesterday. Even when we got the word that father died, I haven't seen her that devastated, that helpless. And yet, no yelling, no screaming, no incinerating bystanders. The next morning, just a few hours ago, I saw her sitting the courtyard, with Bethany and that Starkhaven girl we met years ago. Sis still as pale, the eyes reddened, but otherwise as polite and obedient, as she's been ever since they let her out of the cell. An unbearable sight, even for me. I've kept silent so far, but today, I could keep it down, no longer. When I confronted her, I had a hard time not to yell, maker, I had a hard time not to grab her by the shoulders, and shake her, until I'm able to recognize her again. But even then – no anger, no sarcasm. But I had to endure my elder sister, the woman whose shadow I've tried to flee for so long, look at me with dead eyes, and calmly explain, that it's all for the best. That we would no longer need to run. That at least we can all be together, that we'd no longer need to struggle. That she'd be willing to pay the price necessary, so we can all live in peace. Dam you Sister. Dam it all. I know I seem petty, maker, I can hardly believe, I'd ever bring these words to paper, but more then any thing else, more then fame, more then glory, more then all the petty things I craved so long, I want my sister back.

_-Taken from "Redemption of a Templar" by Ser Carver Hawke, first published 9:41 Dragon, declared heretic by the chantry 9:42 Dragon_


	6. A letter to the grand cleric II

To the attention of her grace, the grand cleric;

As you are most likely well aware your grace, over the course of the last year, civil unrest and criminality have blossomed in an unprecedented manner, in the streets of Kirkwall. Investigations have time, and time again revealed, that those responsible for both the majority, and the most insidious of these crimes are all maleficar, and other dubious individuals associated with the criminal organization, commonly referred to as "mage-underground".

As recently appointed Knight Captain, I am glad to be able to report, that the Knight commander has finally decided to take the necessary actions, and make use of the unconditional mandate your grace issued not long ago.

In related note, I urge again, you to over think your stance on the solution I proposed a year ago. The Knight Commander has since come to agree with my proposal, but without your explicit agreement, we will refrain from putting a permanent solution in action. For now, in accordance with your orders, the very moment I write these lines, strike teams are being assembled to move against the suspected criminal cells throughout the city, and templar guards will soon be stationed at other vital location of infrastructure, in addition to those currently protecting the keep and the chantry. We have also selected a number of mages that have caught attention for continued insubordination, to make examples of. As experience from the past has clearly shown, it's an effective, no I dare say the only effective way, to keep the treacherous and rebellious nature of the mages at bay.

It goes without saying, that you will be informed about every preemptive rite of tranquility we will perform to maintain the circle security, and the Knight Commander has tasked me to enact the rite only when the new, stricter set of rules deem it necessary.

As such, it is my obligation, to inform you of a most unfortunate accident, that disturbed the circles order just yesterday, which makes the application of the holy mark a necessity in several instances. One of the circles youngest almost fell prey to demons. Momentarily without templar supervision, as the youngest mages are granted an off hour during day time, for physical activity in the yards, only immediately supervised by one of their own.

During one of the regular check ups, performed by one of the templar patrols, the appointed mage supervisor, was caught in the act of using magic without permission, to cover up obvious hints of blood magic abuse. The young mage in question was found to sport several bleeding wounds on legs and forearms, all clearly inflicted on purpose.

When the templars currently on duty tried to arrest the suspected bloodmage, the mage supervisor attempted to resist, and resorted to both oral and physical violence, a behavior completely unacceptable, and most certain proof of her complicity in the practicing of blood magic. To worsen the case, the mage in question has repeatedly caught attention, in relation to investigations of criminal individuals, and in relation to the mage underground.

As such, with the knight commanders approval, I hereby formally request permission to perform the rite of tranquility on the mages by the names of Roth, Caled and Hawke, Bethany.

Your humble servant,

Knight Captain Alrik

_-A letter to Grand Cleric Elthina, written by a templar knight captain 9:36 Dragon, retrieved after the retaking of Kirkwall 9:42 Dragon_


	7. Protocol of an interrogation

_Authors note: slight delays due to Open office doing weird random stuff (also, easter break). I've been wondering for a while, if I should write this chapter at all, and whether to stay true to the pattern or break it for one chapter. I decided to go for a route somewhere in between – lets see if it all turns out all right._

Subject: Elf, female, age approximately 30 – 35

Knight Captain Whyle leads the questioning.

-Subject has been captured along a group of refugees, and brought in for questioning after being found wearing the clothing of chantry personnel.

-Prior questioning has revealed that the subject has been an immediate witness of the events in the Kirkwall circle.

-Subject has regained consciousness, and has been ordered to describe the events immediately prior to her flight in greatest possible detail.

Subject: It was evening when it happened good sirs. I was to assist Ser Alrik in a scheduled rite Sirs, to tranquilize one of the mages, that was convicted. I was to clean the Irons, and prepare the fire and the ritual chalk good Sirs. Ser Alrik always insisted that everything was perfect, and I did my best good Sirs, I swear. Todays subject was a human female, with curled black hair. I swear I don't know more. I never ask about them or try to memorize their faces. They told me the tranquil aren't worth it. It usually happens in the courtyard, in the evening. But there are never visitors, just the Templar performing the rite, a few servants, and a couple of Templar guards. But that day was different. There were lots of people there. The Knight Commander herself with that large new blade of hers, at least five other templars, and another mage. A girl, with fiery red hair, two templars held her by the shoulders. And it almost looked like the remaining two templars where escorting the one in the middle in the same manner. And lots of people came to watch. I could see the faces behind the bars, in the second floor. I never saw that many mages in one pace before, servants like me aren't allowed in the quarters where the mages are kept, you know. But the Knight Commander just glossed over it, like she didn't even see all the audience. I mean, of course she noticed those down in the courtyard with us. Went to speak with them both. I swear good Sirs, I do not know what words the Knight Commander had for them, she did not raise her voice, and I stood far from her. But Maker, I was curious, for their effect was remarkable. From what I can tell, the Knight Commander was calm and friendly in her demeanor, but it must have been grim words, and neither recipient took them well. The Templar glared at the Knight Commander with barely contained rage, the two Knights flanking him actually had to hold him back, or he would have hurled himself at his superior. The mage on the other hand, the redhead, showed no signs of resistance. The templars guarding her took a step back, half letting go, half shoving her to the ground, sending her down to all fours. She barely seemed to recognize it, her fists clenched, biting her lip, fighting and loosing a battle against tears. The black haired mage, the one to be tranquilized, just knelt there, staring into the distance. Most mages do, at this point. In iron shackles, and inside the lyrium rune etched into the pavement, rendering their powers useless, most accept their fate. And everything went as usual, the way it should. I handed Ser Alrik the Irons, all properly heated up, and he started reciting the corresponding chants. I saw that dozens of times already. Until... Ser Alrik turned around one last time, to watch the audience, to await the Knight Commanders approval, and that's when... when it all went wrong...

Subject momentarily ceases her report, and requires additional motivation to continue. Pleas and irrelevant speech are not included in this protocol

When Ser Alrik glanced over the mage, the ginger one, she started to move, lifting herself up, head and shoulders still hanging, loose hair covering most of her face. She didn't speak up loudly, but her voice was cold and clear, free of the sorrow that had been shaking her just seconds ago. And Maker, until the day I die, I will not forget the words she spoke.

"You have taken much from me Knight Commander, you and your Order. More then I ever thought I could stand to loose. More then anyone should ever loose. But you will not take my sister. You may force me to give up the last bit of dignity I have been clinging onto, but you will not have her."

It felt like everyone in the courtyard was holding their breath. The mage, she opened her right fist, as she spoke these last words. A loose pebble fell out of her grasp, followed by a thin, wet stream of red, from the deep cut that the sharp stone had left in her palm.

That's when the screaming started. I've seen magic used once or twice before, but never like this. Never so fast, so powerful. The mage girl didn't even need to move, a blast of magic erupted in the courtyard, tossed the templars guarding her aside like puppets, knocking me clean off my feet. I might have even lost consciousness for a few moments. It was Ser Alriks screaming, that pulled me back into reality. I saw him on his back, just a few feet away. Screaming in a high pitched voice, desperately trying to rip of his chestplate. Searing flames licking from inside every nook and cranny of his armor. Only the Knight Commander herself was still standing on her feet, unsheathing her giant blade, and striking in one fleeting movement. The mage tried to dodge, tried to step back, a fruitless effort in the face of a battle hardened Templar. She'd have managed. Almost. The tip of the blade glanced over her face, yanked her head back, drawing a red crescent through the air, while the mage collapsed, her hands covering her face, now herself yelling of agony. And yet the Knight Commanders next blow, the blow that should have rightfully ended the mages life, was met by steel. Somehow the Templar, the one they held back earlier, had gotten to his feet, had obtained a blade, had rushed to the mad mages aid. And yet, even this attempt was futile. The young knight was no match for his commander. It took but two swift blows to bounce the stolen sword out of his fingers, the massive, skull shaped pommel of Meredith' blade connected to the side of his head, sent him staggered, tripping over one of the fallen knights bodies.

The mage, still flat on her back, threw her right hand in the air. A helpless gesture, yet enough to stall the Knight Commander momentarily, the mages blood sprinkled over her cheek. A snap of blood covered fingers. A light, brighter then the sun. And the side of the Knight Commanders head... it was... gone.

Subject suffers from yet another breakdown. Ser Whyles attempts to help her focus again proved futile. Subject deceased.


	8. Memoirs of a nobleman III

_Why hello there – as a matter of fact this project hasn't quite died off yet, but between real life and work and studies eating me up, time has been scarce. Now that my first book is out of the door, and I'm officially too lazy to do the revisions or start the next one right away, I might find the time for some updates here. _

My friend, you must take us all for fools, for the actions we took that day. I'm sure the rest of Ferelden surely does. Lying on my deathbed, I fear I will soon find out, if the maker may forgive the sins, that mortals can not.

I do not make you write these lines to atone, and I will not ask you, or anyone who reads this, to excuse our actions, and what they unleashed upon Thedas. But maybe, just maybe I can hope to explain why we acted the way we did, why did not see a better choice before us.

They came to me, late that night. A soldier from the city watch, banging on my door, urging me to come to the Viscounts Keep with great haste. I know, I hesitated to oblige, and I know that if nothing else, my sense of duty, as appointed recording clerk of the city council, got the better of me. That I followed the Guardsman into the Night, even though he seemed as confused about the late night gathering as I was.

Still, I arrived at the keep as one of the last noblemen, and none of my fellow council members seemed to even have a clue on who called for this gathering, or why. More notable however, wasn't the presence of the other members of the council, but the absence, not only of the Knight Commander, but of any templars whatsoever in the room, and even the keep as a whole. In a time where the templars all but ran the city, their absence was as welcome as it was discouraging. Though it wasn't for long, that a young, dark haired templar entered, a templar that judging by the state of his attire had seen battle, not too long ago. And holding to the templars shoulder, _she _entered. The champion of Kirkwall. For month, we had caught glimpses of her, between the mages' delegations to the council, and she had looked sickish back then, but those images didn't even compare, to the state that young lady Amell was in, that night. Her robes torn, and stained, her fiery hair a wild mess. Improvised bandages, glistening with red, covering her right hand, and drawn across her face. Mind you, in days where the Kirkwall mages faced tranquility for so much as grazing their fingers. But even though all the blood seemed to have left her face, in favor of the bandage covering her cheek, nose and forehead, even though lady Amell barely looked like she belonged into the world of the living anymore, she had regained something that had seemed lost for so long. Maybe I am desperate to give her more credit then is due, maybe my memory is failing me, but she seemed to have regained the charisma, the battle torn beauty, that had so captured all of us, when we first saw her fight the Arishok. Maybe it is true, what the poets say. That some people only truly come alive in the heat of battle, that there are persons destined for violence.

But I digress. As you can probably guess, the moment the unlikely pair entered, the gathered nobleman erupted in uproar, demanding explanation, demanding answers. The templar simply helped lady Amell reach the chair, the one at the head of the table, the one reserved for the night commander. And with a single movement of her hand, the champion of Kirkwall silenced us all. No magic had been worked, just a single throw, a golden piece of metal, flung to the middle of the table. A piece of jewelry we recognized all too well. The Knight Commanders Crown, or rather, half of it, drenched in blood.

Whatever madness may have taken hold of us, we listened as she started talking. As she spoke of a massacre at the circle. Of the Knight Commander loosing her mind, of the templars fighting among themselves, of most of the circles inhabitants dead or wounded. And yet she did not fail to assure us, time and time again, that the circle remained functional, that the remaining templars and mages had restored order and peace, and that they'd remain in the gallows for now. And we believed her, every single word she spoke.

And even more, she warned us. That the chantry would not take the death of a Knight Commander lightly. That more templars would come. Not interested in order or peace, but with the intend of continuing on, where the mad Knight Commander had stopped. She adjured us, to think of the month behind us, of the power that the templars had accumulated beyond their due. And to this day I cannot even call her a liar. Just mere weeks before the incident, the templars had stormed the Launcet mansion, arresting Lord Launcet, the owner of half of Kirkwalls harbor, on no more grounds then some trouble his mage firstborn supposedly caused. Of course his business was no in chantry hand, like so many others.

Lady Amell merely put into words, what we were all fearing, that new templars would come, that they'd use this incident as an excuse to take over what little of the city had remained in it's rightful owners hands. Can you blame us, for giving in, when she offered us a way out? I will never forget her words. "If you wish to surrender, we will all be gone this night" she said. " But magic is to serve man" she said. "So let us stand by your side, let us help you defend your... our home, from those that seek to take it."

Maker preserve our souls, we believed her.

_-Taken from the memoirs of Friedrich of Reinhardt, 9:46 Dragon_


	9. Redemption of a templar III

I guess, I should be happy, I guess I should feel lucky, considering the way it all turned out. I guess...

I got my sister back. And not a second too late. For month, long month, I thought her burden had finally been passed on to me. But no. The time came again, that I was powerless, that my will was not enough. And once again she was there, she stood up. A mage standing up to templars, to the knight-commander, in the middle of the circle. I forced her to, with my cowardice. Perhaps a year ago, or two... perhaps I'd have felt cheated out of my glory. But the truth of the matter is, I do not know if I could have taken that glory. Since the fighting is over, ever since I'm able to gather clear thoughts again, I've been listening into myself, with growing desperation, trying to find out what I felt, back in that moment. I wish I could claim that if my sister had not acted, I would have gladly played her part. I wish I could. That I could claim I did not stand idle, while they took poor Bethany away. That I did everything in my power, to save her from the mark.

But no matter how maddening the search of my intentions becomes, I can not find that answer. And perhaps... perhaps without my cowardice, the uprising... all that bloodshed could have been averted. Perhaps we'd all still be sitting in the circle, alive and unharmed. Would that have been for the better? Or should I have long gone along with the plans of that mad ginger apostate, should I have tried to free my sisters, month ago?

And even worse grief clouds my mind. The loss of so many lives, of templar and mage alike, is no doubt regrettable, but we managed to save a lot. Almost half of the mages still remain, however much shaken or wounded, and many templar joined our cause, even in the midst of battle. Many more then I dared to hope. More importantly – her and me and Bethany, we're all still alive.

But the blood toll, that was payed today, may be nothing, next to the things that are about to come. To the price that is left to pay. The chantry will not let an incident like this go unanswered. The noblemen may have been swayed by my sisters silver tongue, and perhaps she, and Orsino may even sway the grand cleric to join our cause. And still, while we all agreed that we had little choice in the matter, that we needed the city for now... I cannot help but feel, that in turning them into means to achieve our ends, we have all but doomed the city, that I was almost ready to call a home. Is saving the lives of the wounded worth for now, worth throwing an entire city at the mercy or the templars that will undoubtedly come? A question for another day, if Maker wills it that we all see one.

For now, we returned to our grandparents estate, to our estate, as alien as that still sounds to me. By the time, it returned to rightful hands, Bethany and I were already at the circle. Another thing, that sister managed, while I couldn't.

Right now, she's down in the dining hall, with Bethany, with uncle Gamlen, with those friends, those comrades in arms of hers, filling them in, no doubt keeping closer to that little elf mage, then two women should.

Maker, here I go again. Even when writing these lines, I can't keep my tongue in check. Even now, part of me is jealous of what little happiness she's managed to find. And the maker knows, she needs it worse then I do. It is her fate, more then even that of this city, that I fear for the most. Her physical, her visible wounds are one thing, but while cut on her face has proven resistant to magical healing, none of them are deep enough to prove fatal. That's what the healer at the circle said, for what it's worth.

But I fear, the price she has to pay for standing up in face of my cowardice might go far beyond physical scars. I have become too much of a templar, and lost too much of what ever innocence might have been within me, to not know.

I've seen her, scorching Templars that should all but shrug off spells, with unnatural ease, worse yet, with no sign of restraint or mercy. I do not know, what deal she had to strike, to save Bethanys life. Maker, I'm not even sure I want to know. But even now, as she's down there, even as she's among the circle of those dearest to her heart...

I can feel the seed of darkness that has taken a hold. And I fear, gaining freedom from templar chains, might have send her into the claws of a far worse captor.

Maker, when all is said and done, with all that's happened... it is childish to still hope for mercy. And I do not pray for myself. I stood up to divine law, maybe even too late, but of my own free will. But Maker, at least save her. Please at least save my sister. From the magical gift that you cursed her with. From the price she's paying, to be strong where I was not.

_-Taken from "Redemption of a Templar" by Ser Carver Hawke, first published 9:41 Dragon, declared heretic by the chantry 9:42 Dragon_


	10. A letter to the grand Cleric III

To the attention of her grace, Grand Cleric Elthina.

By now, you have no doubt received the reports of the incidents, that have taken place yesterday. I apologize for having to resort to written words, to report to you, but presently, there are too many matters that require immediate attention, and I myself am wounded and in no shape to present myself. While I will of course join you as soon as possible, and provide a more thorough report on the state of affairs, the purpose of this letter is twofold.

Firstly, I do not know what you have heard about the unfortunate events that unfolded, but let me assure you, that the incident was in no way provoked or triggered by mages, let alone any under demonic influence. As unfortunate as it was, any magic violence was an act of immediate self defense, a reaction to an attack. To my knowledge, the Knight Commander tried to invoke the right of annulment, without any justification or grounds for such a grave decision. And to my knowledge, and that of any templar I was able to consult, Meredith also lacked the permission or your grace, that is required to invoke the right.

For the time being, while large parts of the Gallows have been damaged, and while we are still struggling to even tend to the wounded, we remain operational. The few mages left, have joined our efforts to restore order as peacefully and quickly as possible.

The second matter that needs to be discussed, is the Knight Commanders succession. With the Commander deceased, and the Knight Captains dead or wounded and in mortal danger, I am the highest of rank, remaining among the templar forces. Therefore, with your permission, I will assume the mantle of Knight Commander of Kirkwall, at the very least until order is fully restored.

Your humble servant,

Ser Thrask

Dear Elthina.

Your Grace.

The troubling news have just reached my ears. Of fire in the gallows, of ghastly lights and screams, of murder and uproar. I know the nobles have held a meeting, and if the whispers are true, the revered Knight Commander is no more. The guards in front your quarters would not let me through, but at least one of the sisters in faith agreed to deliver this message to you.

I do not know how much you've been told, or what, but I urge you. Do not trust the mages, that openly defy the chantries, no the makers law. I know that you pray for the makers guidance, and believe me, so do I. But we have to act quickly, lest even his guidance will not be of help anymore. I beg you, flee the city, at least for some time. Until the dust has settled, and the lines are clear. To Starkhaven perhaps where it would be my honor to accommodate you, or even further. But with the Knight Commander dead, it is but a matter of time, until mages or worse will come for the chantry, come for you, with blind vengeance in their hearts. The maker did not curse those souls without reason. And you are too important, for the chantry, for me, to fall victim to such fate.

Please, for the love of the Maker, at least consider my suggestion. I have gathered what few trustworthy, faithful men I know. Make haste, and we can leave this very night, before anyone notices, before anyone comes for you.

If I should set in motion what I have prepared, send someone to the gardens, you know the place.

Yours, as always

Sebastian Vael

_-A letter and a note, both adressed to Grand Cleric Elthina, supposedly written 9:36 Dragon, retrieved after the retaking of Kirkwall 9:42 Dragon_


	11. Memoirs of a Nobleman IV

And for a while there, everything went as the champion had predicted. Mere Weeks after the incident at the circle, a chantry envoy appeared before the council. And just, as we had been told, the holy demands were nothing short of surrendering the city, and throwing everyone inside it at templar mercy.

After Meredith had proven what that meant, over and over again, can you really blame our foolishness? We freemarchers have always been stubborn folk. And that name had rung far too hollow in Kirkwall, for far too long.

After all, what claim did the chantry have, back in those days? Just as the champion predicted, the circle remained functional. There had been no surge of bloodmagic, of apostates running about, or even petty crime. Kirkwall had yet to be engulfed in chaos, and one could well mistake this new state of affairs for far more peaceful and orderly then Meredith' regime had been.

Of course there was unrest. When have the darktown scum ever acted civil. And the chantries behavior certainly did not help matters. No matter how many times the council urged the gran cleric to address a speech to the faithful, to take a stance, our pleas were met with nothing but silence. The grand cleric was indispensable, or so they said, and not a word more.

Many might have feared in these days, for their lives or for their souls. And I know, that all of Thedas looked at us, with held breath, waiting for Kirkwall to crumble. And yet, as much as we were the center of attention in these days, we had also become the eye of the storm.

The city had been a boiling pot on the fire under Meredith iron rule, but now the pressure had been relieved. For a while, anyway.

In the meantime, a steady stream of Ambassadors and envoys arrived. Even a number of Tevinter Magisters, some to speak to the council, some to the new Knight Commander. A good man, that Thrask, and working tirelessly through those month. A man, undeserving of his fate.

But I digress. It must sound like I'm trying to justify again. Like I'm trying to to make sense, of what must seem a jesters foolery to you.

But you see, to us, to the poor brave citizens of Kirkwall, things looked just fine back then. The Chantry send their messengers, and we rejected their demands, insisted that the circle operated in accordance to all chantry laws, that there was no corruption here. Eventually, the messengers stopped addressing the city council. Eventually their visits became rare, they went directly to the gallows. Probably regular inspections even.

We took it as a good sign, of progress, of reconciliation even. And when a month passed, and no more strangers arrived under chantry banner, we rejoiced. Imagine the Ignorance, we celebrated our victory in the face of the maker. In open defiance of all that is right and just.

But infinitely worse, this shallow success made us arrogant. We had resisted the chantry once, and in blissful overconfidence, we thought we did it with our own strength. And when the time came again, we abandoned all reason. And rather then being thankful for the mercy we had been shown thus far, we were all too eager, all too drunk with success. And when the Templars finally arrived, few and far between at first, but arms in hand, and ill intend in their hearts... we thought we could push them back. For a while we even did.

Maker, for all it has cost me, I still don't know why they came. Without warning. Without mercy. Before I pass on, tell me... what did those accursed mages do?

_- Last words, taken from the memoirs of Friedrich of Reinhardt, 9:46 Dragon_


	12. Redemption of a Templar IV

Sister, what have you done?

I believed we made it, I honestly thought something better could come of this long and gruesome nightmare. When sister managed to pursuade the nobles, when they rejected the chanty...

More then once, I've already clearly seen all our heads on spikes in the past month. And yet, the wounds had started to heal, quite literally in most cases. After what our family has been put through, I thought we had finally found some peace, some time to mend the scars that have been haunting us since we fled from Lothering.

They say that magic is a curse of the maker. And as much as I do not want to accept that, I cannot help, but feel that our family has been cursed beyond salvation. A curse that's claimed mother and father. And as things stand, a curse that will inevitably consume me and my sisters, regardless of how valiant we struggle.

Another Inspector from the chantry arrived today. I don't know who they are – they ride with the chantries sigils, but 'm sure they're no templars. They've come many times in the past few month, and I admit they make much better negotiators then most templars would. We had agreed to let them in. After all, we've had little to hide from them, but battered, but blossoming circle. They've been more then inquisitive, as was to be expected after all that's happened. But so far, they've never once been hostile. Not until today.

That woman from the chantry, a stern, dark tanned soldier that had accompanied their delegations a few times already... the bitch made an attempt on my sisters life!

She waited, dragged my sister off under false pretense, wanting to discuss the circle uprising, the Knight Commanders death, for the dozenth time. And as soon as they were alone, in some study in one of the wings that we put out of commission, after the battle...

We only heard a distant explosion. When I got there, the room was a right mess, shattered by the powers that had been unleashed within. As much as I doubt he's listening in times like these, I thank the maker that the cowardly assailant underestimated my sisters strength. She survived, even if the chantries would-be killer cut deeply into my sisters back.

On the cowards body, charred and twisted by magic, we found no less then four hidden daggers, and enough lyrium to go toe to toe with a dozen senior mages. A wonder that sis even managed to fend of such a foe.

She's still resting, even if her wound has been closed. The one on her back anyway, as none of the healers have been able to properly tend to the cursed cut that Meredith' sword took to her face. She's still upset, deeply shaken by this accident. We all are. The Assassin carried no notes on her, nothing that could lighten her motives. Of course, everything that we've done, everything we've build is a thorn in the chantries side, an open defiance of their authority. But after month of inspections hat turned up nothing, after endless days of peaceful conference and mediation, did they really resort to such a desperate measure? The way I understood them, we merely needed the grand clerics official acknowledgment of the new state of affairs.

And even if the chantry was really desperate enough to topple our success, to fall back on petty murder... what was there to gain by killing my sister? It would have been an act of gruesome provocation at the very best.

Not that it matters anymore. I'm more then thankful that my sister survived, I really am. But at the same time, that petty part of me wants to blame her. If the Assassin had just survived, maybe we could've... But with the chantries official ambassador, dead at our feet, there is nothing we can do to prevent the inevitable. As much as Thrask tries to hold up the morale, as much I want to hope for the best...

We're cursed. Me, my sisters. All of us. We really are.

_-Taken from "Redemption of a Templar" by Ser Carver Hawke, first published 9:41 Dragon, declared heretic by the chantry 9:42 Dragon_


	13. A letter to the grand Cleric IV

To the Attention of her Grace, the grand cleric,

I send you this letter of warning, in spite of your shortcomings in the month' prior. Leaving messages and orders without answer, that come directly from the Divine herself is all but unacceptable, and more so having the revered mothers turn away the seekers of truth. Rest assured that disciplinary action will be taken, shortly.

For now, there is a much more pressing matter, that requires absolute attention and obedience. Facing overwhelmig proof, that the city of Kirkwall has fallen prey to the dark temptations, and that it has become a host of bloodmagic and demon worship, her divine grace Justinia V has decreed that the evils be rooted out before they may spread, and infest the minds of others.

As such I hereby notify you that the holy armies of Val Royeaux have been set in motion. You are to evacuate the city premises immediately, along anyone among the faithful that is deemed salvageable, to meet the fourth exalted battalion, currently in camp seventeen miles to the South. Furthermore, you are hand to the cities council the following ultimatum: Anyone who leaves the city immediately to surrender without condition, will receive a fair trial before the makers eyes. Anyone left in the city, seven days from the delivery of this letter, will be considered an enemy of the maker, and shown no mercy.

Makers Blessing be upon you,

Knight Commander Balian, Appointed General of the tenth exalted march

_-This Letter was retrieved from the Chantry, after the retaking of Kirkwall. While it appeared untouched on first glance, thorough investigation has revealed the seal to be a clever forgery. Related investigations have been launched, regarding the whereabouts of both grand cleric Elthina, and several revered mothers that are still considered missing._

_Authors notes: Here we are. All the pieces are on the board. The final chapter, as well as the first of my next Dragon Age project, should be up shortly. _

_-(To those who noticed – originally written as a one-shot, and revised several times, the timeline of the dates is a tad bit wonky- it remains uncorrected largely due to lazyness on my part – assume that the chantry was too busy with other things to properly investigate for quite some time, and it sort of works out)_

_-(To everyone who had the kindness to comment – People tell so many horror-stories about commenters on the internet... you guys are actually a pretty nice bunch)_


	14. Crescendo

I can feel the cold hand of death, and the end drawing near

I've seen gods of the men, and all of which they fear.

Sing to me songs of the darkness

Farewell to heaven my friend

Come to me, bury your sorrow

temptation awaits condemned

Zatox – Poltergeist

Her fingers were trembling again. Her whole right hand would've shaken, had it not been for the desperate clutch of the left. Breath. Slow and steady. Lilyan Hawke tried to calm herself, for the dozenth time now, and to no avail. She could not loose herself again. Not here. Not now. Not amidst the handful of friends that she had still left. Not with all their eyes resting on here.

The stood in the entrance of the Amell mansion. With hardly a year spent inside it's wall, she would not call it her mansion. Lilyan stood pressed against the door, the others gathered around. They had become so few. Merill, Anders, her siblings... and Isabella, probably to her own surprise. And they were all waiting for Lilyan, to say something. To lead them into battle like she had done before. Waiting and look... **Their eyes! Look at them! They're weak! Pathetic! You don't need them! Bring me to the battle and we crush them! All of them! Let me ou... **Lilyans fractured sanity took another dent. A million roaring voices, raging inside her head, easily drowning out the feint battle noise and her brothers worried questions. The beast was clawing the walls of it's cage again. Trying to escape, trying to claim it's prize for their bargain. The walls. Walls inside her mind. A prison that demon could not escape from. Or so she hoped. Walls... warm blood, where teeth dug into her lip, and a steady stream soaking the scarf wrapped around her head, over her right eye. The creature fed on her blood, on every drop that was shed. And the prisons walls were shaking.

"_Sister! Sister are you all right?"_

It was Carvers hand, the worry in is voice, that grounded Lilyan just long enough. The walls would hold. They would have to. They had held up to now. Didn't they? If only she could tell.

Her head felt infinitely heavy, but she managed to nod, managed to press words through her teeth.

"_We need to get going."_

Easier said then done. By the sound of the fighting, by the swelling noises, the walls had already been breached. Every second wasted here, was further slimming down their chances to reach the harbor, and Isabellas ship. As small a chance of escape as that already was. With a heavy sigh, Lilyans fingers closed around the staffs hilt, and she freed up the exit.

They didn't even make it to the stairs that led to Low-town. Each step their small group had hastened through the streets, the sound of fighting had swollen, had drawn closer. The templars had led their assault without warning, before the city had even noticed the absence of merchants and travelers arriving on the roads. And as much as Kirkwall was built to be a stronghold, the defenders were little match for the force, that the chantry had amassed. They had driven back a first assault, and at a terrible price. But for all Lilyan knew, the walls had already fallen, the cities defenders already been overpowered. Everyone knew the inevitable. Few people were still out on the streets, most of them rushing to their homes. Fools that would not be able to... **You are the fool! We should be out there, on the glorious killing fields! We should sing the songs of battle, not of cowardice! ** For a second or two, that almost kicked her of balance, all noise was lost in the maelstrom of anger, raging inside her head. When reality returned, she could clearly make out the Andrastian battle-cries behind them. Too close, too fast. And the group was out in the open too, hastily crossing the deserted marketplace. And the long Stairwell hardly offered better cover.

"_We're not going to make it."_

Merills frightened voice phrased what they all thought, what they all knew.

And right then, right there Lilyan Hawke made a choice. Her choice. Perhaps the only good one, that she'd made in years.

When they reached the staircase, descending into the bowels of Low-town, her steps came to a halt. Even her voice felt better, stronger now.

"_You go ahead. I'll hold them."_

The group stopped dead in their tracks. Carver and Anders almost simultaneously started protesting her decision. Not that it mattered, not that their words even reached Lilyan. Her eyes wandered down the staff she was carrying. The keystone. Her fathers staff. A heirloom, she hardly deserved, not after betraying the most basic of her fathers lectures. A simple fling of her arm, and Bethany caught the weapon, the eyes wide with surprise, slowly being replaced by realization. By sadness. Between her sisters, and Merills eyes, Lilyan could not help but turn down her gaze, lest what little of her heart was left would fully shatter. No time for goodbyes, regardless of the pain.

"_Go you fools! GO!" _

Her voice had become a scream, and a wild swipe of her hand conjured wall of blue flames to explode into existence, cutting herself of from the rest of the group. Cutting them off from their pursuers. She turned her back on the flames, desperate to blink her healthy eye free of water. It was better this way. The creature wouldn't be able to harm them anymore. And besides, all this mess was her fault, wasn't it. She had struck the knight commander down. And when the seeker had taken her to task about the creature she had chained inside her mind... for endless maddening nights, Lilyan had tried to recall who struck the first blow.

Did it really matter? Either way, it was her hand that had taken the seekers life, her hand that had spelled doom over Kirkwall. If could trade her life in to let the others escape... it'd be a fair trade. And to her own surprise, Lilyan calmed down. For the first time in month, the first time since the Qunari rampage, she felt something, she had almost forgotten. Peace. Solitude.

"_You and I will both perish here demon, and you will not have me, regardless of how much you struggle. But grant me your power, just one more time, and I promise you a slaughter that will quench even your insatiable thirst for blood."_

She had spoken aloud, and yet she received no answer. The voice remained silent. But the demon answered. She could feel it. The surge of strength, power flowing through her her body, clouding the worries, the sorrow in deep, untamed rage.

Mechanical, almost without her own will guiding it, her hand moved up, ripped the scarf off her face. And the world turned red.

When the first enemy emerged over the stairs edge, Lilyan was well beyond even noticing that her foe was not a templar. It didn't matter. A single flick of her fingers, and flames erupted inside the mans armor, sending him to agonizing death. Even his last screams were meaningless, far removed from Lilyans ears. New silhouettes appeared atop the stairs. Templars? The chantries Crest? Her fingers formed a sign she had never known before, and a web of lightning erupted among them, shattering the marble steps as easy as they cut through metal and flesh. She remembered clearly now. The feeling, merging with so much power. Her father had time and time again lectured of the abominations, of their pain. But it didn't feel bad at all. Lilyan was floating, watching her own body move with ruthless efficiency, spelling doom and destruction on the killing field before her.

The numbness, the light-headedness keeping her mind afloat, tore like a veil when the first arrow hit her. The projectile easily carried the force to toss her small frame around, to bring Lilyan to her knees, screaming in agony and anger alike.

Blood, so much blood. It had gathered in her eyes. It was gushing out between her fingers, where her right was clutched around the arrow shaft, lodged in her shoulder. Good. The blood was good. The blood was power. Enough to extend her struggle past her bodies limits.

The templars were closing in now, and fast. A wide, sweeping gesture. Her left arm refused to obey, but it was enough, to sprinkle the assailants in Lilyans front with drops of red. A simple snap of her fingers, and the same dark magic that had claimed the knight commander, tore the men apart.

The spear came out of nowhere. The initial thrust missed Lilyan by mere inches. Not that it mattered, when the shaft brutally smashed into her forehead, finally toppling her balance. She couldn't even tell what hurt more, her face colliding with the floors marble, or the arrow snapping inside her shoulder.

Just a little more time. Just a little more power. At least restore the barrier in front of the stairs leading down. Just a little more... No use. No good.

The man stood over her, raising his spear to deliver the final, merciful blow. Lilyan Hawke closed her eyes. But the pain would not stop. No final cut, no merciful serenity.

Just the heavy rustling sound, of an armored body collapsing next to her, feint and distant through the sound of blood, pulsing in her ears. Through the drum of her own heartbeat.

While she did not yet dare to open he eyes again, Lilyan could feel strong hands around her waist. She was lifted in the air, and a jolt of agony erupted in her shoulder, when her maltreated body came to rest over a shoulder, when her savior began to move.

A voice. A friendly voice. Deep. Dwarven.

"_Hang in there Hawke, don't you die on me. Didn't think old Varric would turn tail on you, did'ya? I won't let you die some stupidly heroic fashion."_

A deep thankful warmth, from the bottom of her heart. When she opened her eyes, she could make out nothing but a brown coats back, and dwarven feet, carrying her through some sort of tunnel with admirable haste. Her useless left arm and her head were flailing wildly from the motion. Her right arm was moving on purpose. And the realization blew away whatever warmth and hope she'd felt.

No.

Moving without her will, without her consent, in disregard of her desperate attempts to regain her body.

_No._

Fingers, reaching for the dwarfs belt, for the dagger he carried. Lilyan wanted to scream out, wanted to warn Varric of the impending disaster, but her jaws would obey her no more then her limbs.

_No!_

The fingers of the hand that was no longer hers closed around the weapons hilt. Slowly, like the demon was savoring the taste of victory, the dagger moved out of the sheath, the hand raised to take lethal aim.

**Yes.**

**The End**

_Authors note: So much for this one, and thanks for all the revies. My next Dragon Age project should be online, as off now._


End file.
